


Quiet Nights In

by mogwai_do



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Collars, Dom/sub, Domestic, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do





	Quiet Nights In

The air in the flat is warm, warm enough that John has foregone his usual jumpers in favour of shirtsleeves. It's winter outside, cold and wet, but behind the heavy curtains it might as well be summer. The dim lights are more to do with saving on electricity than any attempt at mood, but there's a fire crackling in the grate; he's not sure why he lit it, but he knows now why he'll light it again. He's sitting in his armchair reading a medical journal, nothing too exciting, but interesting enough. He has a cup of tea on the table to his right, half empty, and on his left Sherlock kneels.

Sherlock's skin is bare, warm and dry to the touch; his hair is in its usual disarray, more often than not, John admits, because he can't help pushing his fingers into the dark curls whenever they kiss. Sherlock's head is bowed, his pale eyes half-closed; the leather of the collar at his neck and the cuffs on his wrists is almost black, but it’s a soft black that betrays their use. John lets the fingers of his left hand return to the dark head after he has turned the page and they pet absently. The quiet used to seem strange, but now it's something precious to both of them. He lets his fingers leave Sherlock's hair and slide lightly over the back of his skull, down the line of his vertebrae, over the smooth, warm leather of the collar and down. Sherlock's pallor is less in the firelight; it has a warmth that John knows better reflects Sherlock's real heart. The one he kept hidden away for so long, not that that had stopped it being hurt in the end.

His hand begins the stroke again, a little firmer this time, in recollection. Moriarty hadn't burned the heart out of Sherlock, he didn't really have that power, but in one spiteful game he had revealed its weakness to everyone present. Sherlock's façade ripped open and his greatest vulnerability flaunted like a cheap whore. Moriarty hadn’t burned Sherlock’s heart out he’d just exposed it to the world – the world and John, the only one who did in fact have that power over the world’s greatest detective. Sherlock hadn’t coped well; his mind had turned in on itself, bitter experience telling him how unlovable he was yet knowing no other way to be, and so the damage had been done, even if no-one had seen it but those closest to him. Then again, those closest were sometimes all a person needed. It had been an equal division of labour: Mycroft had taken care of the rest of the world and John had helped Sherlock pick up the pieces, and if those pieces hadn't gone back in quite the same way they had been before, well, sometimes things worked out anyway. He'd thanked Moriarty appropriately, eventually, with a bullet between the eyes, because Sherlock's cruelty was born of carelessness, but Mycroft's was a far more calculated thing. But that was months ago now.

John turns another page, but he's not really reading anymore. He knows Sherlock is listening, observing without looking, all his powers of deduction trained on John right now, ready to do whatever John wants most. But for all that heady power, it's never been John's desire to use it. He treasures these rare times when Sherlock pulls the worn leather from wherever he hides it from Lestrade's irregular drug busts and John calls Mycroft and asks him to keep the world away for a night, or however long it takes. This is their haven: within these bullet-riddled walls Sherlock's inexhaustible intellect winds down to contented purr, his focus narrows down to John and John alone, and everything else is deemed irrelevant. And for John he has Sherlock, safe, well, and within reach, not haring off on some mad chase be it physical or intellectual, at the mercy of sudden inspiration.

John lets the journal fall into his lap and takes a sip of his tea, but it’s barely warm now. He puts the cup back down and turns to look at Sherlock. He can still see the fading bruise and the scrape marks on his shoulder from where he was slammed into a wall last week, but that's all. It's been a good week.

He brushes a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear and knows Sherlock will turn to him now because John wants to see his face. The pale eyes are still slightly lowered, but John knows the pupils will be almost obscenely wide in the dim light. He brushes his thumb over a high cheekbone and Sherlock lifts his head for John to place a light kiss on his forehead.

Sherlock doesn't like sex, but he doesn't dislike it either and sometimes John wonders what Sherlock sees in a broken army surgeon that makes him want their relationship at all, but then sometimes, when Sherlock is playing the sociopath too well, John's not sure why he does either. They just do, he decided. John can only be who he is and if part of that includes Sherlock, well then that’s fine, more than fine. The mere thought of losing Sherlock has the power to steal his breath and freeze his heart, and in the quiet times like now, he knows - more than knows – that it's exactly the same for Sherlock.

His fingers drop to Sherlock's chin and he lifts his head for John to press a slow, chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips. This, he reminds himself, is what Sherlock likes about relationships: the closeness, the affection, the kisses. John lets his fingers trail from Sherlock's chin, down the line of his throat, fingers tugging briefly at the leather there before continuing down. For someone with such reckless disregard for taking care of himself, Sherlock's physique is enviable, but John's just as glad that no-one else knows what lies beneath the designer suits.

His hands are not as beautiful as Sherlock's, not as nimble or soft, but his touch is deft and appreciative in ways he knows Sherlock finds difficult to duplicate. He can feel Sherlock's heartrate pick up slightly beneath his palm as John slides off the chair to his own knees, ignoring the twinge in his leg. His right hand moves now and Sherlock's own hands finally come forward, held out for John, fingers a relaxed curl and dark leather encircling the narrow wrists. John likes this, even though Sherlock's anticipation of his thoughts drives him nuts at other times, on nights like these it's perfection.

John takes Sherlock's hands in his own, guiding one up to rest over his own heart, feeling the heat of Sherlock's skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. He twines the fingers of his right hand with Sherlock's left, sliding them slowly against each other in a simple caress. His left hand moves of its own volition to the back of Sherlock's neck; the buckle of the collar is body-warmed now and he remembers the shiver Sherlock had tried to suppress when John had first put the collar on him and the cold metal had touched the bare skin of his neck.

Kneeling, Sherlock's only slightly taller than him, but John draws Sherlock forward with the hand at the back of his neck until they match perfectly. Sherlock's lips are soft beneath his and his mouth tastes faintly of the mint ice cream John had bought on impulse that morning. John keeps it slow, languorous, trying to share how it feels after he's come and the whole world feels like it could be warm and comfortable forever. Sherlock is pliant against him, but John can feel the tiny twitches in the fingertips over his heart as Sherlock responds to the kiss, to him. John's hard by the time he decides it's enough, rock hard in fact and aching; Sherlock isn't, but that's okay, he doesn't need to be.

A light touch to the hand at his heart and Sherlock's slender hand is sliding down the fabric over John's chest, making him bite back a shiver. Dextrous fingers undo his belt and fly and then John's taking Sherlock's hand again, bringing it to his lips and pressing a warm kiss to the backs of Sherlock's fingers.

John would like to feel Sherlock's lips wrapped around his cock, would love to fuck him into the threadbare rug beneath them, would welcome the touch of those delicate fingers and their deceptive strength. On other nights Sherlock has given him all these things and more, but tonight is Sherlock's and so John wraps his own hand around his cock.

His hand is rough and dry, his fingers shorter than Sherlock's but it's all fine. His left hand slips back up into Sherlock's hair and he worries sometimes that one day he'll do that at a crime scene without thinking, but as those pale eyes ghost over him, he decides he doesn't care. He knows himself well, when to speed up or slow down, when he needs it just a little bit rough or when the ghost of a touch will do. Sherlock knows too now, watches him intently, not as if he's trying to take him apart, but as if he needs to capture every motion, every expression that flits across John’s face, every tiny nuance of what Sherlock does for John just by being, what he means to him.

It's never long once John feels the full force of that intellect come to bear on him. His fingers tighten involuntarily in Sherlock's hair and it must be painful, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice in his avid regard. Sherlock makes a tiny gasp as John's breathy sound of release washes over him, but that's all, his eyes never waver, he barely even blinks.

John's made a mess of his trousers and his shirt; he should have taken them off, but since he's the one who does the laundry, he decides he doesn't care. He forces his fingers to uncurl from Sherlock's hair and strokes the injured spot soothingly as he leans forward until his forehead touches Sherlock's and catches his breath. He straightens a little after a few moments and raises his sticky right hand to Sherlock's lips. It's the stuff of cheap porn as he watches Sherlock lick carefully at the mess, but he knows it's not sex at all for Sherlock, it's his incessant need to know _John_.

When he finishes John takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his, but when Sherlock starts to stand, legs stiff after so long, John tightens his grip and Sherlock freezes. John shakes his head, Sherlock hadn't read it wrong, but John had changed his mind even as Sherlock had begun to move. He draws Sherlock forward instead, onto the threadbare rug, less than a hint and Sherlock lies down. John stretches and, from the back of the armchair, snags the woollen blanket that they'd borrowed from Mrs. Hudson and never returned. Sherlock faces the fire at John's urging and rests his head on John's arm as John curls himself around the ridiculously long body, draping the blanket over them both.

At some point he knows he'll wake up too hot from sleeping in his clothes with no circulation in his arm and in desperate need of a shower, but he sets that aside in favour of wrapping his free arm around Sherlock's chest, feeling both of Sherlock's hands come up and wrap around his smaller one. He presses a kiss to the base of Sherlock's neck, tasting Sherlock and leather and feeling the way Sherlock relaxes even further into the curve of his body.

Sherlock will sleep like this, deep and long, trusting in John in a way John's not entirely sure he deserves. But he knows that Sherlock has observed him as only Sherlock can and he knows John better than John knows himself sometimes, so John closes his eyes and trusts in the fact that Sherlock is a genius and very rarely wrong and, above all, wants this.

FIN


End file.
